The Last DJ
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Angelina's team wins the Quidditch Cup. Well, kind of.


For Prompts of Color fest at HP Diversity. Prompt: Celebrating a Quidditch victory. Despite much pining, I'm not sure I've ever *actually* written these two in a happy relationship, so this was well overdue!

* * *

The tower feels spacious. Lee wants to believe it's because he can't shake the memories of the pitch he'd been watching, expansive and bright and host to blurs of brilliant color. In reality, he supposes it has a lot more to do with the absence of Fred and George, and all the merriment they could usually be provided on to smuggle into the tower. He's seventeen now, he could go and purchase some celebratory goods the legal way, but after a year's worth of high inquisition he's a little burned out on law-abiding.

A couple Weasleys at least have remained as the center of attention; Ron, still gleefully clutching the Cup under one arm while his triumphant broomstick is carefully stowed away, remains mobbed by the Gryffindor onlookers. Even Ginny seems content to be in another brother's shadow, for the night. It's enough of an opportunity for him to pull aside Angelina, who almost stumbles to the wall, not yet adjusting to walking on the ground. "You did it!"

"Oh it was a team effort," she rattles off, like he's some empty-headed wireless announcer looking to fill the air.

"It wasn't your team before," says Lee.

She pauses, glancing around the room. Andrew and Jack have dug out a few old snacks, and Ginny is chatting with some of the younger students. Half the team wasn't really hers, not according to the plan anyway. But something of the team survived all of Angelina's scribbled playbooks and discarded clipboards. Lee looks around too, and sees Alicia give him a curious smile in what he hopes is saying _taking you long enough_.

Angelina still looks dubious, so he volunteers, "You're allowed to be proud of it."

"Okay!" she throws up her hands up. "I'm proud! No, I'm very..."

He scoots along the wall, seeking out the window, and is glad to see she's following, looking for the same view. "You'll miss it."

"Well, yeah."

"And...let me guess, it feels weird to be celebrating a Quidditch game at a time like this?"

She blushes. "Now you sound like one of those sportscasters who just wants me to nod along."

Lee smiles. "You're too mature."

"Mm? That's a new one."

"I need to say _something_ original."

"Is that so. As I recall, you've never been one to lack for...novel material."

"If you say so. I always thought the-fundamentals were pretty consistent."

"Wellllll," she hesitated, "if I'm supposed to be mature and all that, I reckon I should have left that all behind."

Lee finds himself, for once, glancing at the view rather than trying to come up with something to say.

"Too bad," she almost whispers.

He wants to tell her to go back to the party but he's pretty sure most people don't have any luck telling Angelina Johnson where to go, so he just says "congratulations, seriously," and turns to the crowd.

Her fingers are deceptively light in his hand when she reaches out to stop him-he knows what they're capable of. "Lee."

"Yes?" he says. All he can think is that there aren't enough weeks left at Hogwarts for him to start calling her "Angelina" now-she's been "Johnson!" for too many years, with too many exclamation marks, to change at the last.

"Your hand?"

"Oh this?" Umbridge's scars, half-legible against his skin. "Well, someone tried to shut me up. Couldn't be having that."

She turns halfway-neither of them want to face away from the window and the sky, not yet-and kisses him. For a moment he freezes-he's imagined this day more often than he wants to admit, but in slightly different circumstances, and isn't sure how to react. Then imagination takes over and he's kissing her back, almost stretching to reach her.

When they pull away, grinning sheepishly, he's not sure whether anyone's seen-Ron has the crowd captivated with another immediate reminiscence-until he hears Alicia hiss to Katie "you owe me a Sickle."

Rolling his eyes, he turns back to Angelina. "Maybe some changes are for the better," she admits.

"Maybe," he says. Things don't change as much as happen-not that he'd put it that way, it won't make sense, and he has a reputation to be upheld.

He's used to being, if not ignored when he speaks the truth, at best brushed off, by McGonagall and everyone else who thinks they're a color commentator. Of all people, it took Umbridge to fear him, enough to give him a response.

But Angelina has heard him out. No, even better, she's been listening all along.


End file.
